It would be for the Canon’s sake, naturally. A woman of Mrs. Winstanley’s stamp is always the most disinterested of God’s creatures. She never performed an action of which her conscience did not approve. But she was such a superior woman that her conscience trembled a little before her, like most of the other friends whom she patronised. She did not have to wait long. The Canon called upon her soon after his return to invite herself and the Wilmingtons to dinner. It was his last evening at Ostend, and Yvonne was not feeling well enough to spend it, as usual, at the Kursaal. “Yvonne is still poorly, Everard?” she asked, with her air of confidential responsibility. “A little. She has been gadding about somewhat too much lately, and it has knocked her up.” “Has it not occurred to you that her encounter this morning may have had something to do with it?” “Of course not,” replied the Canon, sharply. “It would be ridiculous.” “I have reasons for not thinking so, Everard. The man was singing at the Kursaal this afternoon. Here is his name on the programme.” She handed him the slip of paper. He read the name among the artistes. “M. Bazouge.” He returned it to her. “Well?” “Does it not seem odd to you?” “Not at all. A relation of her first husband’s, I suppose. In fact Yvonne said as much.” “I could not help being struck by the name, Everard. It is so peculiar. I remembered it from the publication of the banns.” “I compliment you on your memory, Emmeline,” said the Canon. Mrs. Winstanley drew herself up, offended. She walked from the window where they were standing to a table, and fetched from it a newspaper. “Do you remember the Christian name of Yvonne’s first husband?” The Canon drew himself up too, and frowned. “What is the meaning of all this, Emmeline? What are you trying to insinuate?” “If I thought you were going to adopt this tone, Everard, I should have kept my suspicions to myself.” “I certainly wish that you had,” said he, growing angry. “It is an insult to Yvonne which I cannot permit. My wife is above suspicion.” “Like Caesar’s,” said the lady with a curl of the lip. “Do you know that we are beginning to quarrel, Everard? It is slightly vulgar. I am your oldest friend, remember, and I am trying to acquit myself of a painful duty to you.” “Duty is one of the chief instruments of the devil, if you will excuse my saying so,” replied the Canon.